


Order in the Absence of Truth

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Dom/sub, M/M, Madeleine Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>To kneel before one's superior is the most natural thing in the world: The priest kneels before God, the knight before his King—what exempts the inspector from kneeling before his chief? The act becomes a duty, then, an act of respect that is all the better because Javert does not need to think to perform it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Order in the Absence of Truth

To kneel before one's superior is the most natural thing in the world: The priest kneels before God, the knight before his King—what exempts the inspector from kneeling before his chief? The act becomes a duty, then, an act of respect that is all the better because Javert does not need to think to perform it, does not need to stagger over words that have never quite fit his tongue for pride. He speaks with Monsieur le Maire, and then, when it is requested of him, he kneels. Javert is a man who has always appreciated simplicity, and M. Madeleine, while a learned gentleman, has simple needs. He wants Javert on his knees—so Javert takes to his knees. 

Nothing else about it needs to be understood. The dog does not wonder what troubles its master when it is sent out to the fields; likewise, Javert does not think about what clouds M. Madeleine's face when he does this. That is reserved for later, when he has the luxury of privacy and there is no need to hide the doubts that pass through his mind.

But when M. Madeleine stands and says, "Inspector, if you do not have some other pressing business, I should like you to stay," Javert abandons doubt in favor for the floor.

"I do not," he says. He steps around the desk, his boots clicking on the floor in a way that suggests professionalism. The irony is not lost on him, despite his justifications. 

"I thought we might talk," M. Madeleine says. 

Javert kneels down. "Of course, Monsieur." He begins to unbutton M. Madeleine's coat; he is deft at it, now, and can undo M. Madeleine's trousers with as much ease as his own. It is not a skill he is particularly proud of, but it has its uses. For instance, Javert has the bottom two buttons of M. Madeleine's coat opened and has begun work on his trousers before he has replied.

When he does, it is with a distinctly distracted air. "You see, I've begun to question the—" Javert slips M. Madeleine's cock out from his trousers, and M. Madeleine sucks in a sharp breath. He tries again. "I'm questioning whether—ah." He is flaccid when Javert sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, but his body is warm, and it is not long before he begins to stiffen on Javert's tongue. Javert takes his time, sucking the thick head of his cock into his mouth and wrapping one gloved hand around the base of M. Madeleine's cock. "Javert," he says, half-gasping. His hands slide across Javert's face; his thumbs brush at Javert's rough beard, then travel up to stroke at his hair. When Javert leans down, taking his cock until the head threatens to choke him, his fingers tighten. The pain runs like pinpricks down his spine.

Javert moans low in his throat, knowing that the sound vibrates through M. Madeleine, knowing what it does to him. His cock twitches against the roof of Javert's mouth. M. Madeleine's cock is too big to take in one swallow, but he does not mind Javert's failings; he shudders as Javert's hand twists at the base of his cock and his tongue laves wherever it can reach.

Whatever M. Madeleine has begun to question slips from his mind—his hands fist in Javert's hair and his hips buck. Javert sits back on his heels and relaxes his jaw, letting M. Madeleine fuck his mouth with short, tentative thrusts. "I prefer you like this," he says through his teeth. The words tumble over each other, meaningless and rushed. Even as he says it, his face clouds over; Javert glances up at him and then shuts his eyes against that doubt and whatever it might mean. He swallows around M. Madeleine's cock and groans again, louder this time, pleased at the stifled sound of it, encouraging M. Madeleine's thrusts with tongue and hand. "Quiet, and—and— _Javert._ " 

He must be close; he is hard on Javert's tongue, and the contrast of the soft, untouched skin of his prick and the lewd thickness of it only makes it worse. Javert resists the urge to touch himself as he swallows against M. Madeleine's cock, as he tastes away the bitter come that beads at the head as he thrusts into Javert. To do this for M. Madeleine, to kneel, to supplicate, is a filthy act, but it is one appropriate for his station—to touch himself, to derive pleasure from it as M. Madeleine watches, would be wrong, would overstep his boundaries. With this in mind, with his own cock aching and pressed against the rough cloth of his trousers, Javert clenches his free hand in a fist on his knee and brutally twists at M. Madeleine's cock. 

M. Madeleine's hands tighten in his hair—Javert gasps—the pain borders too close to pleasure, makes him shiver, makes goosebumps stand on his arms. M. Madeleine stops thrusting, suddenly, and slowly buries his cock in Javert's mouth—the head brushes at the back of Javert's throat and he gags and tries to jerk back, but M. Madeleine does not give immediately. When he does, Javert pulls back, panting heavily, and looks up. M. Madeleine's expression is strange and dark, hungry, too familiar. Javert thinks of the sea, and is not sure why, does not wish to examine the thought too closely, does not want to let these associations follow him to his knees in this room. He licks the spit away from his bottom lip and swallows M. Madeleine's cock more quickly than before, almost savage as he sucks and jerks his head over his cock—and he knows M. Madeleine is going to come when his hands go loose in his hair, a forced gesture, when they pet his bangs back from his forehead gently. 

Then there is the tightening—his thighs shudder, the pale skin of his belly tenses, his cock twitches in Javert's mouth, and with a soft grunt, M. Madeleine comes in thick bursts, filling Javert's mouth. Javert swallows what he can, but drops of it spill down his chin, onto the floor, onto M. Madeleine's boots. Javert waits, obediently sucking his cock and swallowing down the spend—and he pulls back too soon; M. Madeleine's cock twitches under the last flick of Javert's tongue, and a few drops of come smear on Javert's cheek.

In the silence after, M. Madeleine pants, a ragged noise. Javert lets him go, careful to place his hand on his knee, careful to avoid touching himself. He wants to wipe away the spend on his face, but knows M. Madeleine will want to, and is hard-pressed to deny him—or himself—that gentling gesture; so he waits, as M. Madeleine wipes sweat away from his brow and takes a shaky inventory of himself and Javert. He takes a step back, bumping into his desk; he rests his hands on the sturdy surface, collecting himself. It won't be long before he notices the state of his boots. 

Javert swallows. The taste of M. Madeleine will remain on his tongue for the rest of the day. He will remember it for many days after. 

With one last shaky exhale, M. Madeleine fixes his trousers. His coat remains partly unbuttoned, however, as he hesitates, noticing his boots. He glances at Javert—and whatever he sees there prompts him to quickly glance away again. "If you—don't mind," he says, slow, hesitant. 

"Yes, Monsieur," Javert says. Grateful to have something to occupy his hands, he bends low. The floor is cool against his sweaty palms. The smell of dust is strong. Taking care to keep his gaze low, his body supplicant, he leans toward M. Madeleine's boot—he kisses the tip of it, first, a brush of his lips that might be missed by even an observant man. He flicks his tongue against the fine leather, parting his lips, and his breath mists against the black leather of the boot. He tastes away a drop of come with a flick of his tongue. The first taste is always the most difficult to surmount, as it is impossible to ignore how lowly the act is, but after that first lick, it becomes easier as other things become more distracting. His arousal is aching, a terrible need that burns through him, and he indulges it with long, slow licks across M. Madeleine's boot, cleaning away stray drops of come and traces of dirt and dust. 

It is a matter of respect. That is all. 

He takes his time, tracing his tongue across the smooth surface of the boot, taking care to lick the whole thing clean though there were only a few stray drops. M. Madeleine does not stop him. Once that is done, he shifts, sliding his hands across the floor, dipping down again, a deep bow that cannot be retracted. The other boot has even less come on it, but Javert takes just as much time, swallowing back his shame, aware of how hot his face is and how it must look to M. Madeleine, how this whole affair must seem to him. He wonders whether it is kindness or cruelty that drives him to allow this.

When he is finished, he sits back. "Does that suffice?" he asks, as calmly as he can. 

M. Madeleine nods, but does not speak. Slowly, he finishes buttoning his coat. He uses a thumb to gently wipe away the cooled come from Javert's cheek, and brushes his dry palm against Javert's jaw. For a moment, he cups Javert's ear—he opens his mouth, and his throat works with a swallow. There are words, Javert is sure, on his tongue that are better left unsaid. Ducking away from M. Madeleine's touch, Javert stands. The knees of his uniform are dusty; his hair is unruly, and he passes a hand through it, smoothing it down. 

"Will that be all?" he asks. Perhaps he should ask about M. Madeleine's doubts. He will not. 

"Yes—yes, that will be all. Thank you, Inspector."

Javert inclines his head, turns on his heel, and exits the room, straight-backed and composed. 

Doubt will come in time.


End file.
